The World Drags Me Down
by Dominobeck
Summary: Darcy Lewis has a ... kind of a thing with Clint Barton. But it doesn't mean anything, right?
1. Chapter 1

****Disclaimer: **Marvel, not I, own the characters and universe.**

**Author's Note:** This is part of DB's 50, my weekly challenge to write one story per week inspired in some way by 50 random songs on my laptop. This is for prompt No. 38, "She Sells Sanctuary."

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><p><em>Tap, tap, tap.<em>

Darcy Lewis pushed her laptop off her lap and walked over to her bedroom window.

She'd been expecting this since her phone had buzzed with a news alert (_BREAKING: Sources say Black Widow seriously injured in attack on Empire State Building._) from a local TV station more than two hours ago. Darcy had turned the TV off hours earlier, unable to watch any longer after seeing Thor thrown clear across and into the river.

Darcy flipped the lock on her window and pushed it open.

Clint Barton leaned in, wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her to his mouth. His kiss was hungry, hard and desperate - just like that first time.

That meant it was bad. It wasn't adrenaline or restless that brought him to her windowsill, it was fear and guilt and panic.

She closed her hands around the sides of his face, holding him to her and letting him feel her, warm and soft and alive and **here**.

After a long moment, Clint broke away from her mouth and buried his face into her neck. He was shaking ever so slightly.

"C'mere," Darcy whispered, running her hands down his back to his waist and tugging. She was startled to find hard leather and kevlar under her fingers but tried to swallow it. Now she realized she could smell dust and ashes.

He had come directly to her.

Her stomach fluttered, even though she tried to beat the feeling down. He never came to her right after - it was always hours later, when he was restless and couldn't sleep; and even longer now that she didn't live in Avengers Tower anymore.

Clint shut the window after he climbed in and leaned back against it. Darcy sat on the edge of her bed and studied him. The light from the lamp on her nightstand cast long shadows across his frame, but she could make out a harsh smear of soot across his cheek.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she finally asked in a soft voice.

"No." Then Clint sighed and himself in her direction. "I almost - I looked up and - I, I just..." He briefly closed his eyes and then reached down to gently cup her cheek. "I just had to see you."

Darcy felt her stomach flip upside down. Clint Barton really needed to never say that again. It wasn't like that with them. It was... well, Darcy didn't quite know what it was, but it was definitely not like **that**.

"Are you OK?" Darcy now could see that dark stains covered most of his vest, and she thought of that text alert.

And for the briefest moment, Darcy was relieved that it was her blood and not his. Glad that he was here, in front of her.

Darcy stood up and ran her hands up his arms before cupping his face and tipping it down to her. He smiled a bit, then, and suddenly he was kissing her again.

Darcy sighed a bit into the kiss, sternly telling herself that this, this is what they were like. Not puppy love and affection, but heat and fire, passion and comfort. She snaked her arms around his neck, the harsh armoring digging into her skin. Clint ran his hands down her back until he hit her bottom. He leaned down a bit, and Darcy knew what he wanted. She allowed him to grasp the bottoms of her thighs and pull her up and against him. As she wrapped her legs around his waist, he pulled her even closer with one arm, while he dug one hand in her hair.

Time seemed to stop, or maybe it sped up.

The next thing Darcy knew, Clint had sat them down on the edge of her bed. Her fingers ran clumsily down his chest, fumbling for a way to reach his skin. "Clint," she breathed, "I don't know how -"

He dragged her fingers to the hidden clasp and then moved to start yanking her T-shirt up. "Oh," Darcy said. Further words flew from her mind as the hard material parted to reveal flesh. She would be lying if she said she had never dreamed of this: Shedding his armor from him, turning him from code-name Hawkeye - the stranger she saw on CNN and sometimes ran into in the halls - into Clint, the guy who made her scream, the one who made her shatter into a million edges of glass. Clint shrugged out of the vest and then pulled her shirt off.

"God, Darcy," he murmured before licking a trail down from her throat to her breasts. The hard calluses on his fingers etched fire into her skin. She arched her back, digging her fingers into his hair.

And then her pajama pants were pooled on the floor at the foot of the bed and the fire began to burn hotter.

"Scream for me, honey," he whispered against her core. He dipped his head again and then -

Darcy saw stars, swear to God. She thought she screamed - she could still feel the remains of it in deep in her throat.

God, her neighbors were going to kill her. At the very least she was probably going to get another very embarrassing note asking her to please remember the walls are thing slipped under her door.

Darcy swallowed, hard, and glanced down. She almost rolled her eyes at the satisfied curve to his mouth. So fucking cocky.

Clint slid up her body, his now-bare legs twining with hers. He cupped her right breast and leaned down to suckle at it. "You ready for more, Darcy?" he said into her skin. He moved on top of her, and she pulled her legs up, ready for him.

When he sank into her, his name rolled off her lips too easily. It was odd, how they moved so easily in concert. It had been like that from the very first time - they just fit together. They weren't awkward together, even when they came together hard and fast like tonight. He slammed into her, drawing a cry with each push. But there was no pain, just need - sharp and hard.

He needed this - needed her - because something bad had happened tonight. Something that made him want to cling to someone. She didn't think it was just because of the Widow, although that could simply be her wishful thinking. The first time had been like this; it had been the night after they had returned from some mysterious, weekslong mission that had taken them ... somewhere. Darcy didn't have the clearance for it, although she had some horrible, half-formed ideas based on the reaction Thor had when she and Jane had put in "Aliens" a few months ago.

Clint refused to talk about it, and a shadow fell across his face every time Darcy brought it up until she kissed it away. But it must have been bad. Tony had gone on a spectacular five-day bender that had crisscrossed the globe. TMZ was still doing stories on it - Darcy had read one just yesterday.

"Darcy," he said, his voice strained. "I can't hold on - I'm - oh, Darcy!"

But she was there already, his heavy words banking her fire even hotter. And as he slammed into her one last time - she could feel so much of him - it was all she could feel - she saw those stars again.

It was perfect. It always was.

Until her alarm went off, her bed cold and empty without him. She didn't even have to turn around; she could feel the stillness in her tiny apartment in Brooklyn.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she shut them tightly, refusing to give in to them. It was what it was. But for the first time, Darcy thought, "I can't do this anymore."


	2. Chapter 2

_Bang, bang, bang._

Darcy half-shrieked and dropped the wine glass she was carrying to the sink on the polished hardwood floor. No one had knocked on her door since shortly after she had moved in, and that had been just a takeout order who knocked on the wrong door. In the last sixteen months, she had grown used to privacy in her home. At least, "privacy" was what she called it; Darcy thought it sounded better than loneliness.

Not that she had time for guests. She couldn't even remember the last time she had eaten dinner at home, but she was pretty sure it was while she was still living in New York. Between the 10-hour workdays, the mandatory business dinners and cocktail parties and the far-too-often travel, Darcy's posh Capitol Hill condo mainly served as a place to sleep and shower.

Darcy carefully stepped around the broken glass and headed to the door. She slipped her Taser out of her purse on the way - old habits die hard - but nearly dropped it when she got a good look through her peephole.

"Tony?" Darcy asked uncertainly as she swung her door open. Her boss was in his work suit, and he looked worse for the wear - deep scratches raked the red paint and soot blackened the left half of him.

"Darcy."

Her stomach dropped to the floor when she heard the hesitation in his digitized voice. "It's not Jane, is it?" she said, her heart thudding so loud she was sure he could hear it.

"No. No, Darcy; of course not," he said as his mask opened up to reveal a very weary Tony Stark. He took a breath before finally saying the last two words Darcy expected to hear. "It's Clint."

Darcy did drop her Taser then, as her head spun lightly. "Clint?" she asked dazedly. "I don't... I don't understand."

"Darcy," Tony said firmly as he stepped through the door and grasped her shoulders with cold, metal fingertips. "Darcy, look at me."

She almost didn't hear him. All she could see was Clint - Clint in her window, in her bed, laughing at her as she kicked his butt at Soul Caliber. Someone else was inside her condo for the first time since she had moved in, but Darcy had never felt the emptiness more.

"Darcy, he's asking for you," Tony said, his voice oddly patient. Tony Stark didn't do soft and patient. It was... It was all wrong. Everything about this was all wrong. "Put some shoes on and get your coat. OK?"

Darcy blinked at him, his words finally penetrating through the haze. "Shoes?" she said numbly. Why would she need shoes?

"Shoes," Tony repeated. "Put some on - shoes that tie. And a warm coat."

Later, Darcy would hardly remember the terrifyingly fast trip up to New York in her boss' arms. It was cold, but Darcy didn't know if it was from the night air, the coldness of Tony's Iron Man suit or just the chill of knowing that the man she wasn't supposed to be madly in love with was hurt.

It was probably the latter; the warm hug from Thor when they touched down on the roof of Avengers Tower did little to thaw her. She could still feel the chill when Tony pushed open a door in the medical wing, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back.

The Black Widow was at Clint's bedside, one of his hands in both of hers, just as Darcy had somehow known she would be.

Darcy almost turned around, suddenly feeling violently awkward in her clunky Doc Marten boots and the expensive, long wool coat she had thrown over her sweatpants and Hello Kitty T-shirt. She didn't belong here.

But the redhead had already seen her. She offered a small half-smile. "He's been asking for you," she said softly, standing as Tony nudged Darcy toward the bed surrounded by beeping machines.

She held out a hand and pulled Darcy closer to the bed. Clint's breathing was slow, but regular. His chest was covered in bandages, the sight doing something odd to Darcy's insides. Every fear she had ever had for him came racing back, stealing her breath.

The Black Widow placed Darcy's still-chilled hand on top of Clint's and squeezed. He was warm, Darcy distantly noted as heat slowly flooded back into her. Warm and alive.

He was alive.

She could feel the Black Widow's eyes on her, and Darcy willed the tears she could feel building to, please God, just stay in her eyes. "He's missed you," the other woman told her as she walked away. Darcy couldn't decide if the faint tone she heard coloring the other woman's voice was regret or hurt.

Darcy waited until she could no longer hear her footsteps before collapsing in the chair beside Clint's bed. She shrugged out of her heavy coat and pulled the chair as close to the bed as she could before raising Clint's hand to her lips.

"I'll be back later to check on you, kid," Tony told, clumsily patting her hair with one heavy, gloved hand.

"Thanks, Tony," Darcy said quietly, rolling her eyes when Tony simply made a pained face before slipping out the door. He didn't do gratitude, not when it was sincere.

But Darcy owed him, and not just for tonight. When she had desperately needed a way out of New York, Tony Stark had lazily snapped his fingers and produced a demanding job, a luxurious condo and a whole new life. She suspected S.H.I.E.L.D. had only released her because Tony had thrown a fit about it.

And while the first year had been rough - just as Pepper Potts had warned, most had dismissed her as one of Tony's floozies until she had proved herself - Darcy lived for her job. She got a thrill out of outmaneuvering self-important Pentagon officials and throwing the weight of Stark Industries around on Capitol Hill. She didn't even have to sell her soul like most lobbyists did; contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark was not actually a devil.

So why was she here, holding the hand of the man she had left New York to get away from? Darcy wasn't quite sure.

She had been tired of having her heart crushed every time Clint left without a word. She had no longer been able to take seeing him in a meeting at work and having to pretend that she didn't know how he shuddered when she licked a line up the middle of his back.

She wasn't sorry that she had walked away from that. Because that had been bullshit. But sitting here in an austere white room full of beeping machines, Darcy found that the familiar sharp hurt had faded. The love was still there, but the anger and the resentment were more memory than feeling now.

Her eyes snapped to his face as Clint stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open. "Darcy?" he muttered insistently. "Please, I need Darcy."

Darcy's throat tightened and her vision blurred with tears. It didn't change anything that he needed her, not really. But it was a start.

She dropped a quick kiss on the hand she held and tightened her grasp. "I'm here, baby," she said. "I'm right here."


End file.
